


but an orphan's an orphan

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma is seventeen when Ingrid gets Killian’s file, and she can see her adoptive mother is wary about this particular case. They haven’t fostered boys her age since Felix, and Emma isn’t very good at pretending she doesn’t know why. She does understand the logic behind that choice but – she’s not stupid, she knows better than to get attached to anyone staying in this house. Hell, she knows better than to get attached, period, because nothing about her life told her that, if she was given something, she could keep it. She’s still getting used to her bedroom being her bedroom, and she’s been living with Ingrid for years.</p><p>“What?” she tells Ingrid, when she’s reading the file. “You’re afraid I’m going to seduce him with my college applications and Harry Potter trivia?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ingrid adopts her when she’s fourteen and – Emma didn’t exactly know what she expected to happen, but it hadn’t really dawned on her that Ingrid would keep being a foster mother. Which doesn’t make sense, once you think about it. It’s Ingrid’s job as much as owning the ice cream parlour is, and they have a huge house. It makes sense, that she would keep welcoming foster kids even with Emma now living there full time, no backsies.

It makes things a little awkward, too. Emma and Ingrid look enough alike that they could pass off for biologic mother and daughter, but Emma isn’t particularly comfortable with that idea yet, so they don’t lie to the other kids about it. And it breaks her heart, the hope in their eyes when she explains that her foster mother adopted her, for real. There is that ‘what if’ light in their gaze, and Emma doesn’t want to snuff it out but. She’s been there. It hurts.

There are Ava and Nicholas, whose mother just died and who need a place to stay until someone find their father; Grace, whose father is going through some shit and needs to prove he can be her guardian; Felix, who steals all of Ingrid’s money and runs away in the middle of the night.

And then there’s Killian. Emma is seventeen when Ingrid gets Killian’s file, and she can see her adoptive mother is wary about this particular case. They haven’t fostered boys her age since Felix, and Emma isn’t very good at pretending she doesn’t know why. She does understand the logic behind that choice but – she’s not stupid, she knows better than to get attached to anyone staying in this house. Hell, she knows better than to get attached, period, because nothing about her life told her that, if she was giving something, she could keep it. She’s still getting used to her bedroom being _her bedroom_ , and she’s been living with Ingrid for years.

“What?” she tells Ingrid, when she’s reading the file. “You’re afraid I’m going to seduce him with my college applications and Harry Potter trivia?”

Ingrid cracks a smile and, the following week, Emma is allowed to drive to the group home to pick him up. She knows the drill, for how many times she’s been through it herself, so she follows Ingrid inside and forces her breathing to stay even. It’s hard, sometimes, to remember she’ll never be back there. She’s always afraid someone will come and tell her the adoption was a joke, and she’ll need to pack her things and leave. It’s not the worst, as far as phobias go, but it’s not a walk in the park either.

Killian is waiting in the office when they enter, backpack at his feet and – Emma has seen his picture, in his file, so she knew what he looked like. But it’s one thing to see his ID picture, and it’s another thing to have him in front of him, and… Okay. Breathe, Emma.

He’s taller than her, but only a little, and his hair falls in his eyes. His clothes look good, as far as kids living in the system go, and Emma reminds herself that he wasn’t always in the system, that his brother died last month and he’s there until he’s eighteen and independent. Which sucks, all things considered.

She smiles at him, tight-lipped, and he nods in reply.

It’s more than she used to give foster families, so Emma counts it as a win as she lets Ingrid introduce herself. Her adoptive mother squeezes Killian’s arm with a smile of her own, before she focuses on the paperwork to fill in. She’s a pro at this, really, and Emma wonders how she got so lucky, always. Everything is said and done in a matter of minutes, and then Killian grabs his bag and follows them both outside.

“We will go grocery shopping this afternoon, so we can buy things you like. Your file says no allergies, but don’t be afraid to tell me what you don’t like. We’ll adapt to everything, right, Emma?”

Emma hums under her breath, and rolls her eyes as she knows Ingrid will not see it. Still, she can’t help but glance Killian’s way, just in case, and isn’t surprised to see he’s a little overwhelmed by the situation. The Ingrid effect.

“Don’t worry, you get used to her.”

He smiles, his first one, before his eyes widen. “ _That’s_ your car?”

“Hey!” Emma replies, defensive. “Don’t disrespect the bug!”

Ingrid laughs, as she lays a hand on Killian’s forearm. “That’s Emma’s car. Mine is less – colourful.”

“Don’t disrespect the bug,” Emma says again, but with a grin this time. The bug is an old thing, and she spent more money on fixing it than she did on buying it – but it’s hers, and she worked at Granny’s during the summer and weekends to pay for it, and _it’s hers_.

She slides behind the wheel, waiting for Ingrid and Killian to settle too before she turns the engine on. They stay silent for the most part, and then Ingrid does all the talking once they arrive in town, mostly pointing to this place or that building, so Killian will know a little more about Storybrooke. Emma will have to break it to him that the town is boring as hell – just to avoid the false hopes, or something.

“And here’s our home,” Ingrid says when Emma parks in front of the garage’s door.

Killian nods, and offers her the kind of tight smile that only comes with forced politeness, before he grabs his bag. He does look curiously at the house, though, both outside and inside once he is given the grand tour.

He thanks them both, then goes take a shower before diner.

Emma grins at Ingrid and whispers, “Harry Potter trivia,” just to piss her off.

 

…

 

Diner is a small affair, and Ingrid does most of the talking. The first few days in a new foster home are always awkward, Emma knows it all too well, but Killian seems to warm up to the woman, so there’s that. He isn’t a troubled kid or anything anyway, so unless he turns out to be some massive kind of asshole – or, as Emma likes to call them, a teenage boy – there is no reason why his stay here shouldn’t go well.

Emma soon finds herself alone in the kitchen to do the dishes and, by the time she’s done, Ingrid is reading a book in the living room and Killian is nowhere to be seen. It’s not very late, but she bids her adopted mother goodnight with a kiss on the cheek, before she climbs up the stairs – she still has some history homework to do, and then she’ll watch a movie or something.

Still, she slows down when she sees the door to Killian’s room is ajar, and hesitates a few seconds before she goes to softly knock. The door opens a little more under the pressure of her closed fist, and then Killian tells her to enter, but she just opens the door and leans against the frame, not really daring.

His laptop is opened on the bed, and he looks up to her, fingers still on the keyboard. For a moment, Emma doesn’t know what to do, because it obviously was a spur of the moment thing and she has no purpose invading his privacy right now. So she smiles, a little forced.

“I was just checking if you’re doing okay.”

“I’m fine,” he says. Then, as if catching himself, he adds, “Thanks.”

Emma’s smile turns a little sincerer even as she starts nervously picking at the hem of her shirt – she’s never been good at socialising with other foster kids, here or in other group homes. She was either invisible or bullied, and fighting back meant being kicked out, so she learnt the hard way that shutting up and pretending you don’t exist mostly keeps you out of trouble. (Never stopped her from being kicked out, though, until Ingrid.)

“Okay, good. I’m leaving at seven thirty for high school, if you want to carpool or something.”

He makes a face, which has more to do with high school than anything, and Emma can’t help but snort as she shares the feelings – school was a nightmare for her before, when she was shipped off to this or that house and had to change school every two months or so. She’s still struggling to keep up with everyone else, but her grades are better now and she hopes it will be enough to be accepted into – well, if not an Ivy League, at least a good college where to study law.

“Seven thirty it is then,” Killian replies. Then he stays silent for a few seconds, just staring at her until Emma feels like fidgeting under his gaze. “When did you get adopted?”

She clenches her teeth for her jaw not to drop, and it’s a hard feat – especially with how bluntly he puts it, proof that he hasn’t been in the system for very long. Nobody ever is that blunt about it, _nobody_. So she swallows around the knot in her throat, and holds her head a little higher, refusing to show any kind of weakness – she knows all too well what happens when you do.

“I was fourteen,” is all she says.

She was fourteen is all he needs to know – not how the Swans almost adopted her but changed their mind when they got a kid of their own, not how many group homes and foster families she went through for fourteen years, not the abuse, the neglect, the loneliness. He wouldn’t understand, anyway.

“Sore subject?”

“ _You think_?” she replies, all sarcasm and no chill.

The thread she’s been picking at unravels between her fingers, and she pulls a little more, all nervous motions – it is an old shirt anyway, it has seen better days. Still, she lets go of the threat a few seconds later, guilty of ruining a piece of clothing that shouldn’t be thrown away. Not as guilty as the face Killian offers her, obviously aware that he crossed a line there. Not on purpose, of course. Emma is a good enough judge of character to see he isn’t an asshole, just clueless about the universe he’s been thrown in despite himself.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

“Yeah. I know.”

He nods and so does she, and it’s way too awkward for Emma to feel comfortable, but she has no idea how to simply leave without making matter worse. They are supposed to live under the same roof for a few months, Emma doesn’t feel like antagonising him quite yet. It would only disserve her and would make Ingrid upset, so it’s clearly not worth it.

“Seven thirty,” Emma finds herself saying again, even if she has no idea why.

Thankfully, Killian must pick up on her clues – which isn’t all that hard, come to think about it – because he offers her a tentative smile, small and a little shy, before he says, “Good night then?”

She likes that it sounds like a question, that it sounds like he’s leaving her a way out more than he’s dismissing her plain and simple. She likes, more than anything, that he is giving her the choice, that damn choice that was stolen from her so many time since she was but a little girl. So Emma smiles too, a little sincerer than before, and nods one last time with a whispered ‘good night’ as she steps back to leave the room.

She carefully closes the door behind her, before she goes to hide in her own bedroom for the night.

 

…

 

The journey to school the following morning is spent in silence, both because Emma isn't a functional human being before 9am and because they don't have much to say anyway. She parks her car then shows Killian the way to the main office, telling him her last class is at 3pm and they can carpool again if he wants. He simply nods and goes his own way, and Emma does the same, stopping at her locker first and then going to the history classroom. Gwen and Ruby are already there, so Emma vaguely waves to them before she drops in her seat, folding her arms on the table to hide her face. Her friends know better than to have a conversation with her right now, anyway.

That is, until Merida shows up.

“Oi Emma, who was the boy?”

“What boy?”

“There's a _boy_!?”

Emma groans and hits her forehead against the table, which doesn't help at all come to think about it. And, of course, since her friends have never been known to be helpful, Merida goes on with, “Aye, she drove a boy to school, I saw them in the parking lot.”

“New foster kid. Shut up.”

Which is the wrong thing to say to the lot of them, all as nosy at the other. Emma doesn't have to raise her head to know the three of them are staring and probably smirking, and she groans once more out of habit. Storybrooke is a small town, after all, so gossips spread fast and are not all that common – for Killian to show up like that, it must feel like Christmas to people who love to whisper to each other. And, of course, her friends are that kind of people.

“Oh more testosterone,” Merida comments. “I need to tell Lancelot.”

Emma looks up just enough to notice Gwen’s incredulous face as Merida takes her phone and starts typing away a text. Gwen’s eyebrows shoot up, before she asks, “Are you gossiping with my boyfriend?”

It’s the oldest trick in the book, really – Merida and Lance got stuck together in detention one day, came out of it the best friends in the world. It’s actually how Lance was added to the group and how he met Gwen, but Emma is not quite awake yet so she can’t exactly point it out now. But it makes sense, in a way, just like it makes sense than she and Lance bonded over being adopted kids.

“ _Please_. I’m gossiping _at_ your boyfriend. Lancelot couldn’t even –”

“What did my son do this time?”

All girls stop talking at once, if only to flash Mr Merlin equally shit-eating grins as he enters the room and drops his messenger bag on his desk. He smiles kindly at them as he takes his seat behind the desk, not caring that much about getting an answer or not – he is used to them invading the classroom in the morning, after all, and even pretends not to listen to their conversations. Emma has seen him smile once or twice at some of their jokes, hence the ‘pretends’.

Emma finally forces herself to be a little more alive, if only to rummage through her bag and grabs a book, before she stands up and moves closer to the teacher’s desk. She hands him the book, and Mr Merlin takes it.

“Did you like it?”

“Yeah, it was great, thanks.” She worries her lip for a second before she adds, “I started working on my college applications.”

“Do you need a recommendation letter?”

She beams at him. “That would be nice, yeah.”

His grin mirrors her and – it’s kinda awful, having a crush on your teacher who is also your friend’s adopted father, but Emma can’t really help herself. He was one of the few teachers to actually help her when she was struggling with school, and he’s been pushing her to do better ever since, what with lending her books to read and being eager to help her. The schoolgirl crush was inevitable, come to think about it.

“I’ll work on that this week-end,” he replies, and opens his notebook to scribble it down.

“Thanks,” Emma says lamely, fidgeting a little on the spot, before she goes back to her seat.

The girls are deep in a conversation about Killian – because of course they are – as Ruby is apparently over-analysing his physical appearance after Merida described him to them. Emma doesn’t even try to hide the way she dramatically rolls her eyes at their antics, before she grabs her pens and her notebook.

It’s only a few minutes before the other students enter the room, Killian among them. He holds a piece of paper that must be his schedule, and looks a little confused over everything – that is, until his eyes find Emma’s from across the room, and the sight of her seems to calm him down. Emma smiles back, weakly, and watches as he goes to sit in a corner.

Ruby leans closer to her, and whispers, “Is he a douche?”

“ _What_? No!”

“Great! Let’s make him our friend!”

Which is how, hours later, Emma finds herself inviting Killian to join them at their lunch table – he looks a little spooked, truth be told, but Emma knows it mostly comes from joining a new school in the middle of the year. She, after all, is quite familiar with that feeling, so she can relate. She also can force him to sit down next to her at the table while the others have a discussion about math homework, just because.

“That’s Marian. That’s Ruby, she’s dating Mulan, but mostly she works at Granny’s so she’s the one you want to ring for free milkshakes. That’s Merida, she moved from Scotland when she was eight but she never lost the accent, so you guys can bond over Doctor Who, or soccer, or – I don’t know, tea or something.” Killian finally cracks a smile, and Emma counts this as a win. “And that’s Gwen and Lance, they’re dating. Lance is Mr Merlin’s son, too. Questions?”

Killian shakes his head a little, before he stares back at her. “What’s your name again?”

She punches his shoulder, and laughs. “Asshole.”

 

…

 

They set up a routine quickly enough, which basically means they carpool to and from school every day, do the dishes together, and then do their homework. Emma is used to that kind of life, but she has to say it’s nice to see a foster kid not complaining about doing the chores for once. It’s more about testing the foster parents’ limits, especially at the beginning, but Killian didn’t grow up like that, so he doesn’t even try. It makes for a nice change.

What he tries to do, though, is to ruffle her feathers when they’re standing side by side in front of the sink, her hands in the soapy water while he wipes the plates. It’s rare Emma finds someone as witty and sarcastic as she is, but Killian makes for a fierce opponent, and more often than not she ends up flickering some water at his face out of frustration. He only grins in reply, because he thinks he’s _winning_ , the jerk.

(Once, she just splashes him, and he strikes back, and Ingrid actually has to yell at them because they flooded the kitchen. But, even drenched from head to toes, they couldn’t stop laughing, so Ingrid didn’t stay mad at them for too long because – well, because Emma is getting along with someone, so.)

And sure, it’s always better than Felix staring at her like she’s a piece of meat or that one kid who screamed in his sleep, but at the end of the day Emma focuses on her college applications more than anything, so she basically tunes out everything else when it’s just her, her laptop, and pages after pages to fill, write, check.

She bumps her head on the table a lot too.

She knows Ivy League is definitely out of the question, both because of her grades and because of money Ingrid doesn’t have, but Boston U is still her dream and she’s exhausted just looking at the application form and. Suddenly she’s very scared she’s not going to make it. Impostor’s syndrome, right? They’ll accept her, and then they’ll realise they made a mistake, and they’ll kick her out of campus without second thought. Or they won’t accept her at all. Emma doesn’t know what is worse.

“Are you okay?”

Killian’s voice doesn’t startle her, but it’s a close thing. Instead, she groans loudly and lets her head fall on the table, forehead pressed to the hard wood as she whines some more. She’s past the point of being able to make coherent sounds and she needs sleep. Badly.

She does startle when cold fingers wrap around her shoulders, and it takes all she has not to elbow Killian in the ribs for daring to touch her without her consent. But she feels how tense her muscles are under his hands, and he presses his thumbs into the knots at the nap of her neck and – okay, yeah, a moan escapes her lips, because it feels good.

“I can’t do it,” she mumbles, more to herself than to him. She also gathers her hair above her shoulder to give Killian proper access to her stiff neck, and he chuckles lightly even as his fingers come to run circles there, tiny little motions that has Emma in a puddle.

She doesn’t want to get attached to him – his birthday is in July and then he’ll be gone, back to his life and away from Nowhere, Maine. Good for him, really. It’s the same reason she wants to go to college, so she doesn’t have to see the same faces every day for the rest of her life. (And also because she doesn’t know how to stay still.) But he will leave, ultimately, so there is no point in getting attached – Emma knows the drill a little too well, and Ingrid is the only exception to the rule. It’s easier that way, for everyone involved.

“You can and you will,” he replies simply, like it’s that obvious. “You’re brilliant, and smart, and any college would be lucky to have you study there.”

“You’re full of shit,” she replies.

He laughs once more, and puts enough pressure on her neck that she follows his lead and leans her head back until it’s pressed against his stomach. She looks up to him, upside down, only to find him smiling, small and tender, as his fingers keep their motion on her skin. It’s more caresses than massages by now, brushing against her hair and her ears, but Emma doesn’t want him to stop.

She won’t get attached, or so she says.

“And you’re un ungrateful brat,” he replies.

Emma gasps, and does elbow him this time.

 

…

 

“Netflix and chill,” Killian laughs even as he kicks her feet off the coffee table.

They fall on the floor softly, because she’s wearing big fluffy socks, and Emma has to grip tight to the bowl of popcorn on her lap for it not to fall too while it’s at it. She glares at Killian even as he plops on the cough next to her and grabs a mouthful of popcorn, shoving it all in his mouth in that gross boy way. She makes a face; he smirks.

Killian turns back to her screen then, snuggling a little into the blanket – it’s been snowing for three days straight now, so all the roads are closed and the school with it. Which, of course, means Emma is doing absolutely nothing at all instead of working on her essays and the math test for next week, and instead spends her day watching crappy child movies on Netflix and hunting all the junk food in the kitchen. She feels the weight of Ingrid’s stare all the way from the other side of the house, it’s beautiful like that.

“Mostly chill,” she replies, burrowing into the blanket some more.

Killian snorts but doesn’t comment, instead tugging on the blanket a little so she’ll share. Which – Emma isn’t really good at sharing, as a rule. Mostly because she’s territorial when it comes to her things, and sharing means taking a chance that people will steal from you. Been here, done that. But it’s just a blanket, and that time of her life is long gone, so she lets Killian snuggle against her under the blanket, lets him steal her popcorn, lets him watch the crappy child movie with her.

Seriously, Ingrid should be proud, instead of judgemental.

“How can a dog be so skilled at sports when I’m breathless climbing the stairs?” Killian asks after several minutes of silent watching.

Emma is surprised he lasted that long, and she snorts a little at his question. “Doesn’t holding the bat hurt his teeth?”

“And what about the tiny shoes he wore in that other movie?”

“You should see him playing volleyball.”

Killian laughs out loud. Emma looks at him, because she loves his laugh – deep and throaty, with little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes even as he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. He’s handsome, like – not just from a certain angle, actually very handsome, the kind of handsome everyone agrees on. Even Ruby find shim attractive, and Ruby is more into girls than anything else these days. It’s not really fair, to have that guy living under her roof and to know there is no point because he’ll leave soon. Don’t get attached, she tells herself, and it sounds more like an order than a mantra now.

“Can’t we watch Beethoven instead?”

Emma presses her lips into a thing line, definitely looking away from him as she replies, “It’s not on Netflix.”

He laughs again as he playfully bumps his shoulder against hers. “And how do you know that?”

She bites down on her lip not to crack, but it’s hard when her belly is full of popcorn, when there are at least ten feet of snow outside (not really), and when Killian is all warm and cuddly against her. Also, this might be the most ridiculous conversation she’s had in weeks, so – “Lucky guess.”

He laughs again.

They end up watching this movie and the three others of the same series Netflix has in stock, which is a bit too much but also perfect. She’s dozing off on his shoulder by the time the credits roll in, his cheek pressed against the top of her head, and it’s easy to forget about everything else. It’s easy to forget there is a world outside of the white windows of the house, that tomorrow they will most likely be back to school, that life isn’t just made of warm cuddles and hot chocolate with marshmallows.

She could get used to that, and it scares her half to death.

 

…

She’s the one to open the front door that day – well, she shoves it open more than anything else really, but the door is old and, well, it’s always nice having an excuse to do things violently. Killian rolls his eyes behind her, or at least Emma knows him well enough to know he does without having to look at him, and she swallows down the urge to poke her tongue out at him.

Instead, she bends down to grab the mail. Half the letters are stuck under the door, of course, but it makes her grin more than anything as she pulls them out and toward her.

That is, until she sees the logo.

Her breath catches in her throat as she raises slowly, unable to look away. This is it – this is what will decide of her future, no matter how small and insignificant-looking that envelop is. Just some folded paper, glue and ink, yet so much more, and Emma can’t look away, can’t move from her spot in the middle of the hallway.

She feels, distantly, like she’s not in her own body anymore, Killian’s hand on her forearm. She hears the concern in his voice as he asks her if everything is all right, before he goes on with a simple ‘ah’ when he, too, sees the letter.

 _Ah_ , indeed.

Her fingers start trembling – or perhaps it’s her whole body, Emma doesn’t know anymore. It’s ridiculous, really, to react so dramatically before she evens opens the letter and reads it. She should at least wait to see if she’s going to be upset or freaking out, but she can’t help herself, can’t stop the panic attack rising deep within her.

“Emma, love,” he says, and she focuses on his hand drawing circles on her back, on the smooth lilt of his voice. “Just open the letter and then we’ll grab the fake IDs.”

She snorts through her nose, almost despite herself, but that does manage to set her into motion. Even with still trembling fingers, she opens the letter – has to try three times to get it right, actually – before she snatches the piece of paper and shakes it until it unfolds in her hands.

Her eyes scan the first words.

She gasps.

“Good ‘oh’ or bad ‘oh’?” Killian asks.

Her voice is small and weak as she replies, “I’m accepted.” She looks up to him, eyes wide and scared, but he just grins in reply until she feels a smile of her own blossoming on her lips. “I’m accepted at BU!”

He pulls her into a hug – or perhaps she’s the one to jump in his arms, or perhaps they both go for it at the same time. The details are blurry, but then he’s holding her, her feet off the ground as they spin and spin until her laughs fill the hallway and her cheeks hurts from smiling too much. She’s breathless when he puts her back down, holding on to him with her arms around his neck, beaming at him.

“I knew you could do it,” he says in a whisper, only for her. “You’re brilliant.”

Emma opens her mouth but no sound comes out, and instead her eyes drop to _his_ mouth – lips so red and inviting, tempting, tantalizing. She feels drunk on happiness and excitement, and kissing Killian sounds like the best thing to do right now. The best way to celebrate. So she leans forward, nose brushing against his, slow, tentative, until –

They jerk apart when Ingrid opens the door, startled. Emma turns around, hears him curse under his breath but perhaps it’s better that way, perhaps it would have been a mistake anyway. Just a spur of the moment, just a way to channel her bliss instead of really meaning it. There is no point, anyway.

“What’s going on?” Ingrid asks as she eyes them warily.

“I’m accepted at BU,” Emma replies, but the cheerfulness isn’t the same already.

 

…

 

In the end, Emma is the first one to leave.

Elsa convinces her to spend the summer with her in Norway, in the cottage owned by their family – a much needed break before coming back to the States and starting college, and the kind of holidays Emma can’t refuse. She’s never been abroad before, has never even taken the plane before, so it’s a little too exciting to refuse. Also, and mostly, Elsa has that kind of face where you can’t say no to her.

So Emma packs her bags, flies to Norway and, when she’s back in August, Killian’s birthday has passed and he is long gone.

She wants not to be disappointed but…

 

…

 

Years pass by.

She all but forgets about him.

Law school is funny that way, in that it keeps her way too busy to even hope having a social life outside of textbooks, lectures, and hours spent at the library. Whoever said college was the best years of your life was full of shit and never had to write a ten-page essay for an International Law class, obviously.

Hell, she even forgets about basic things like showering or even eating some days, and she can’t remember the last time she had five minutes to Skype with the gang like old times, so…

So Ingrid’s phone call, Ingrid’s “Killian’s at the hospital,” well.

That’s a punch to the guts.


	2. Chapter 2

Emma is the first one to reach the hospital, since Killian is in Boston too, and she tries her best not to yell at the nurses when they tell her they can't do anything for her. Emma bites on her lip, fully aware that “my mother is his emergency contact apparently and yeah I don't even share her name but I swear I know him” wouldn't be a good reason in any universe known to man. She can't blame the nurses for doing their jobs, but Ingrid still is hours away from the hospital so…

So Emma drops into an uncomfortable plastic chair, drowns herself in disgusting coffee and plays Angry Bird on her phone until it runs out of battery and she's left staring at the baby blue wall.

She hates hospitals. She hates the smell, the noises, the too bright neon lights. She hates the nurses running around and the babies crying in a corner, but mostly she hates how you can actually feel people dying, suffering. Killian is suffering too, somewhere behind those too pastel walls, and it drives her crazy just thinking about it.

He'd told her, when she had the flu and wanted him to stay away from her, that he was a survivor, that he was stronger than anything the world threw at him. She had laughed then, but he hadn't fallen sick, and now she wishes his powers of immortality were real. She wishes none of this, whatever this is, had happened so he could go on with his life, so she could go on with hers instead of staring at a wall and imagining the worst.

“Duckling!”

She raises her head to the voice of Ingrid as she rounds a corner, shoulders sagging in relief when she finally sees her adoptive mother. She must have put her foot down to be here so quickly, not that Emma would complain about it. Instead, she stands up to fall into her mother’s arms, a choked sob on her lips as she presses her nose to Ingrid’s neck.

“Why are you his emergency contact?” is the only thing she finds to ask.

“I was when he lived with us. He probably never changed it.”

Which makes sense, all things considered, but Emma blames the lake of logic on how cloudy her brain feels right now. So she nods, before she adds, “They won’t tell me anything.”

Ingrid smiles, and caresses her cheek. “They will tell me. Come.”

She all but drags Emma toward the nurses’ office, asking for news about one Killian Jones. The nurse nods, not without a glance toward Emma, to which she replies with her most sarcastic smile. Her way of saying ‘yeah, I was here for a reason, what did you expect?’ without actually sounding rude or dismissive. The nurse types away on her keyboard, a little ‘ah’ on her lips before she looks back to Ingrid, only for her gaze to avert.

“Doctor Whale will give you the latest news,” she says with a nod toward the doctor who’s walking down the hall.

Emma has never been a fainter, but her stomach churns at the little splatters of blood on his scrubs, the blood a sharp contrast with the light green of the fabric. Blood doesn’t usually make her queasy, but it’s Killian’s blood, it’s Killian who’s hurt, Killian would might be – _no_.

“…been in a sailing accident,” she hears the doctor say, and it takes her a few more seconds to focus on his words instead of the blood. It’s hard, but she manages. “He is in the clear now, but one of the ropes was wrapped around his wrist for too long, it cut his blood circulation. We had no other choice but to amputate.”

Ingrid presses a hand to her mouth to swallow her gasp, and Emma takes a step back if only so she can lean against the nurses’ desk. The world is spinning around her, bile rising in her throat and lungs emptied of air. She forces herself to breathe, if only to choke on her own tongue, and she squeezes her eyes shut.

He’s okay, she tells herself. It’s just a hand, it’s not his life. He’s okay, he’s okay, it’s all that matters. _He’s okay_.

“He’s recovering now, but you can visit him before he wakes up if you want.”

“Thank you”, Ingrid tells the doctor, before she turns to Emma. Her fingers are cold when she presses them to Emma’s wrist, and perhaps it’s enough for her to gather her thoughts, just a little. She looks up to her adoptive mother, eyes wide and scared and blurry around the edges with tears she refuses to shed. “Do you want to see him?” Ingrid asks, soft, gentle.

Emma nods. Or, at least she thinks she does, and then the doctor is walking them down the hallway, so she might have. She stares at her own hands, Ingrid’s arm around her waist the only thing grounding her to the here and there. Faintly, she hears Ingrid explaining the doctor who they are to Killian and that, no, he doesn’t have any relative to contact beside them.

And then they’re standing in front of a door, painted a darker blue than the walls, and Emma swallows around the lump in her throat. For all she’s been mourning the lack of a real family all those years, it never taught her how to deal without those situation – with caring about someone so much you’re actually afraid of losing them. And she shouldn’t be afraid of that, not when she hasn’t seen him in five years, not when –

She remembers doing the dishes together, laughing until they were out of breath, sleeping on his shoulder instead of doing homework. She remembers driving to school every morning, prom night with him and her friends, silly messages left on the mirror because of the steam. It was only a few months, maybe, and she tried her best not to get attached, but it happened anyway when she wasn’t watching.

She cares about Ingrid and she cares about him, and she could have lost him today without even being aware of it. Perhaps it is the worst part.

His room smells like antiseptic and sickness, and Emma’s eyes fall on the place where his hand should be, where his wrist ends abruptly. The wound is carefully wrapped into a white bandage, and Emma forces herself to look away from it as she steps further into the room. An equally white band-aid is on his cheek, and a purple bruise is blossoming on the side of his jaw but, beside some light scratches, he seems alright. A little pale and hurting, but alright.

She raises a trembling hand to brush the hair away from his forehead. “What the fuck, dude?” she asks him, voice breaking on the words.

She swears she hears the doctor snort, and feel Ingrid rolling her eyes. Not that she turns around to check, ignoring Dr Whale as he leaves with a few words about calling him if needed. She can’t look away from Killian’s face, can’t stop from lightly brushing her fingers against his forehead, his cheek, his jaw.

“He’s going to be okay,” Ingrid tells her.

Emma wishes it was that easy.

 

…

 

She drags the chair close to his bed, so she can hold his hand even as she sits. Even if the chair is as uncomfortable as can get, Emma still manages to fall asleep, and is roused hours later – it’s dark outside and Ingrid tells her visiting hours are over and they need to go. She squeezes Killian’s fingers only more time, unwilling to let go, and makes the mental promise to come the following day – and the day after, and after, and…

Mary Margaret looks worried when Emma makes it back to their apartment that night, but she lets Ingrid explain her roommate what is up with everything while she goes to her room and grabs pillows and blankets. She needs to keep herself busy, because busy prevents her from thinking, so she gets Ingrid’s make-shift bed ready and then moves to the kitchen to prepare dinner for everyone. Mary Margaret hugs her at some point, fast but caring, and Emma smiles weakly before she focuses back on the grilled cheese sandwiches in front of her. It’s not exactly high gastronomy, but nobody will blame her for at least trying.

And they don’t, eating in silence before they let her lock herself in her room for the rest of the evening, letting Mary Margaret take care of Ingrid – they’ve been living together since the first day of college, it’s not like her petite friend doesn’t know her adoptive mother anyway.

It’s way past midnight before she falls asleep, and then she goes from nightmare to nightmare, but oh well.

 

…

 

Emma has a class the following morning, then a study session she can't particularly cancel at the last minute because the essay is due next week, so it's well into the afternoon when she finally makes her way to the hospital. She wipes her clammy hands on her jeans and wets her lips as she stands in front of the door to Killian's room, because the nurses told her he woke up during the night and she has no idea what to expect, what to say.

But, as it turns out, she's shaken out of her thoughts by a shout from the other side of the door, and so she stops thinking altogether as she enters the room. Killian is struggling against two nurses, features distorted in pain as one of them holds his handless arm down while he tries to jerk away from her grasp with no small amount of curses and insults.

Emma has no idea how he hears her small “Killian” over the sound of his own voice, but he does, and then he's staring at her. His face is stunned but Emma can only focus on the pain in his eyes as she crosses the distance separating her from him and sits on the bed next to him.

“Emma,” he whispers, small and broken.

“Shh, shh,” she replies, and cards her fingers through his hair softly.

She wants to add some words of comfort, but Killian leans against her instead, nose pressed to her neck and good hand griping the fabric of her sweater at her back, and the words die in her throat. She shares a glance with the nurse, who nods to her before going back to tending to Killian's bandage, then Emma runs a hand through his hair, soft and slow.

She swallows around the knot in her throat when his tears wet her neck, closing her eyes to fight a sob of her own as she holds on tighter to him. Her fingers keep massaging his scalp as words of reassurance tumble from her lips. She probably isn’t making any sense, and Killian’s body shivering against hers isn’t helping in the least, but the nurse makes a quick job of changing his bandage, and nods to Emma when she’s done.

Emma mouths back a simple ‘thanks’ before both nurses leave the room, closing the door softly behind them. Her fingers still play with Killian’s hair, but he is slowly calming down, and it’s yet another twenty minutes before he stops trembling and hugs her instead of clinging to her.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, his voice so hoarse and unconvincing Emma can only laugh nervously.

“You’re clearly not,” she replies as she leans away from him. She ignores the way his fingers tighten around her sweater, like he doesn’t want to let go – she was doing fine, being over him, she can’t just…

“What are you doing here?” he asks, preventing her from falling down the rabbit hole of her thoughts.

“Ingrid is still your emergency contact.”

Killian frowns, obviously confused – Ingrid was right, he just forgot about the thing altogether, not that Emma can blame him. It wouldn’t be her priority either, quite frankly. Still, his confusion allows her to push him back against the pillows, careful not to manhandle his left arm too much. She makes for standing up and sitting on the chair next to his bed instead, but his fingers flex where they lay on her knee, and she elects not to move.

“I think she came this morning, but…” his sentence ends in a little nod toward the IV line hooked to his arm, and Emma stares for a few seconds at the drops falling, one by one. She winces even if she doesn’t mean to, before her hand finds his once more. Her thumb brush against his knuckles, and she doesn’t imagine the tired smile on his lips.

“Yeah, she had to go back to Storybrooke,” she tells him.

“That’s good,” he replies, already slurring on the words, his eyelids heavier.

The nurses probably gave him something when neither of them were looking, and Emma smiles at the way he blinks up at her, like he’s forcing himself to stay awake for her. With her free hand, she brushes some strands of hair away from his forehead.

“Have some rest. I’ll be there when you wake up.”

That, more than anything, seems to work on him, for Killian closes his eyes a few seconds later – it only takes a moment for his breathing to deepen, head tilted back against the pillow. He’s still a little pale, the bruise on his jaw just as purple as the bag under his eyes, and Emma fights the need to kiss his cheek.

She also tries to stand up, but even in his sleep Killian tightens his hold on her fingers, so she moves around to make herself comfortable enough so she can grab her laptop in her bag and work on her essays. His hand still in her makes for slow typing, but Emma has always been one to adapt to whichever situation she’s thrown in.

He wakes up just when a nurse comes in to tell Emma visiting hours are over, and so she squeezes his hand with the promise of coming back tomorrow – which she does, and he smirks at the pile of textbooks she drops on his table. He reads a book while she studies, which involves a lot of grumbling over turning the pages with just one hand. Emma knows the cheerfulness is partially due to the meds they keep giving him, as well as no small dose of denial from him – but it feels like home, mostly, like kicking each other’s shin under the table until Ingrid noticed and doing the dishes together and letting him help with her math homework.

She had missed that, and she hates herself for being happy about having him back because he’s still in the hospital with a missing hand and bills the size of the Empire State Building. She shouldn’t be allowed to be selfish about having him back in her life.

“How’s BU?” he asks one day, because she’s snuggling in her college sweater with a cup of steaming hot coffee as she studies for her exams on civil rights next week.

She looks up to him, glasses slipping down her nose. “Go Terriers,” is all she replies at first. She takes a sip of coffee, before she adds. “It’s good, really. I feel like I’m going to die of exhaustion soon, but you know.”

“Going place,” he finishes for her, and Emma grins as she closes her book and moves to sit on the bed next to him. His arm doesn’t hurt as much as it used to be, but he started physical re-education this morning, so he’s a little grumpy – he still moves to give her more space, though, because that’s what Killian does.

“What about you? You never told me why you’re in Boston now.”

He swallows down, and refuses to meet her eyes. Refuses to grab her hand too, moving his when her fingers brush against his wrist – it stings, but Emma forces herself not to let it affect her.

“Took over the family business after my birthday. You know, boat trips for tourists, and all. There are more tourists in Boston, obviously, so I thought it made sense to move things down there.”

Simple, to the point. Emma nods a little, and wets her lips – there is a question on the tip of her tongue, it’s been there ever since she saw him again. She never found the right opportunity to ask, but now the right opportunity has found her and… “Why didn’t you tell me? That you were here?”

He swallows again, chin down, still not looking back at her. “I didn’t think you would want to see me.”

Emma opens her mouth, eye widening, but no word comes out. Instead, she’s left gaping at Killian for long seconds, unable to make sense of what he just said. Because it doesn’t make sense, plain and simple. She refuses to believe he would think such a thing to be true, especially after all those months together, especially after – a memory flashes through her mind, breathless and laughing when she received her letter of acceptance. She forces herself to think of something else, anything else, but the memory lingers.

“Killian…” she whispers, has no idea where to go from there.

“You’re going to be a _lawyer_. You’re going to go out there and – and _save the world_. And I’ll be here, with my boat and a missing hand.” There is so much anger in his voice that it takes Emma aback, even more so when he finally looks at her again. Anger, but also heartbreak in his eyes, and she swears her own heart shatters at the sight. “You deserve better than that. Than _me_.”

And maybe it’s too much too soon, maybe Emma has no idea how to react to that kind of declaration, because she closes herself off in a heartbeat – a defence mechanism if she’s ever seen one, a defence mechanism she hadn’t used in years. One she never thought she would use again, not after Ingrid, not after –

She clenches her jaw and nods, before she stands up. “I see how this is.”

“What the –”

She grabs her books and shoves them in her bag, refusing to look back at him as bile rises in her throat and tears prickle at the back of her eyes. It hurts more than she would admit, and she drowns in her own thought of rejection and being forced to follow someone else’s choice. She drowns so much that she doesn’t even notice Killian standing up until he’s right next to her, grabbing her arm.

He’s taller than she remembers, only a few inches but enough to be towering her now – his shoulders broader too, even more so with the stupid hospital gown he’s been forced to wear for days now. It leaves his legs bare, and she stares at his knobbly knees for longer than is necessary, if only because that way she doesn’t have to meet his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice an octave higher than usual.

“You obviously don’t want to see me so there’s no point…”

“Is that seriously what you’re focusing on right now?” His fingers tighten their hold on her arm, and he pulls her closer to him, until she has to look up if she wants to keep eye contact, until she can almost feel the warmth of his body against her skin. “After all this time, you’re still stubborn enough to keep me at arm’s length.”

“That’s not…” she starts, but they both know that’s exactly what it is.

They both know she kept doing that, over and over again, when they were living under the same roof – Ingrid’s disapproval was only the perfect excuse for Emma not to get too attached to him, not to get closer than was truly necessary. But that’s what she does, what she always does. Keep people at arm’s length and build walls around her heart, because it’s safer that way if not easier. Because people can’t disappoint you if there is nothing to be disappointed about. Because people can’t hurt you if you don’t give them to power to do so.

“You don’t get to choose what I deserve. _Nobody_ gets to choose for me.” For a moment, she thinks he’s going to contradict her, just because she is used to him contradicting her about everything. But instead, a tender smile blossoms on his lips, just enough to turn the corners of his mouth a little. It’s small and vulnerable, and his eyes are full of the kind of emotions Emma refuses to acknowledge right now. Or ever. So she snaps, “And go back to bed!” for good measure.

“Yes ma’am,” he replies, and purposefully lets his fingers brush down her arm when he lets go of her. He grins and adds with a wink, “Don’t look at my bum,” before he turns around.

She does look, and curses him when the hospital gown doesn’t show anything at all.

 

…

 

She blames finale weeks for not visiting him for an entire week, but Emma is perfectly aware it is as fake as excuses come. She’s still a little spooked from replaying his words in her head for hours, as well as the conclusions she draws from that.

She doesn’t know how to deal with Killian’s feelings.

So, in true Emma fashion, she doesn’t deal with them at all, and only shows up at the hospital when they release Killian, because she isn’t enough of a dick to let him take the bus back to his place. He smirks a little when he sees the bug, but doesn’t comment, and their ride is spent in the kind of uncomfortable silence she never thought possible between them.

She drops him off by the docks, his apartment right above the place he uses as offices for his business, and watches until he unlocks the door and steps outside. Only then does she drive away, and not even the cheerful pop music on the radio lightens up her mood.

 

…

 

Christmas at Ingrid’s seriously is the best time of the year.

Not that Emma has that much ground for comparison, really, because all her Christmases before Ingrid were pretty shitty, but the holidays are particularly merry in Storybrooke. Snow started falling a few days ago, everything white and powdery as Emma enters the little town with her bug – people have decorated most of their houses and shops, little green and red lights tinkling everywhere, Christmas trees here and here, even a snowman in a corner. Emma even finds herself humming to a Christmas carol as she parks in front of Ingrid’s garage.

And, well, there is everything else – the food, of course, and watching Hallmark movies with mugs of hot chocolate, and sleeping until noon. It feels like real holidays, the kind Emma never thought she would have when she was but a little girl. It’s good, simple, and she loves it. Even more so now that she knows she will meet all her friends again – Lance and Gwen back from Berkeley for the break, Ruby still working at the dinner, Mulan and Merida giving sport classes to kids. They all spend time at Granny’s, laughing like they never left town, and it feels so good Emma barely wants to leave again.

Emma’s expecting Ruby, actually, when the front door’s bell rings, so she slides her way to the door – fleece socks on polished wood, always a success. “You’re fucking late!” she calls after her friend, and almost runs into the door when she fails at controlling her speed.

She opens the door with a laugh, the sound dying on her tongue when Ruby isn’t the one standing in the doorway.

“Am I?” Killian asks, looking down at his watch. “I told Ingrid six o’clock.”

Emma shakes her head and closes her mouth, if only to press her lips into a tight line. “What are you doing here?”

Killian opens his mouth, but must come to some kind of conclusion, for he closes it and curses under his breath. He shakes his head and looks away, scratching the spot behind his ear with a nervous chuckle. “Of course she didn’t tell you she invited me.”

“ _Oh_.”

Emma looks behind her shoulder, even if it’s useless because Ingrid is at work right now – but it gives the illusion of her cursing at her adoptive mother from across the house, and it’s all that matters. Of course Ingrid wouldn’t tell her, because then Emma would find reasons not to come and Christmas would be ruined, like some kind of fucked-up, emotionally incompetent Grinch.

“Well, enter then,” she tells him, because she’s not that incompetent and it’s still snowing outside.

Killian does, only to toe out of his shoes in the hallway, and she wants to scream at him for how familiar this is – like he never left, like he’s just slipping back into old habits effortlessly. She envies him this ease, where she always feel awkward all the time, even in her own apartment now. Like she doesn’t truly belong anywhere, like even after all these years she can’t afford to really settle down.

“Well, you know the house,” she tells him, swaying a little on the spot before she turns around to climb up the stairs and lock herself in her old bedroom. The Harry Potter posters are still up on the walls, her old broken computer in a corner, and she falls on her bed to yell into the pillow until her voice feels hoarse.

Scratch that.

She’s slipping back into old habits too.

Which is how Ruby finds her not twenty minutes later, face still pressed to her pillow and kicking the mattress every so often. Her friend just takes one look at her before she heaves a loud sigh and drops on the bed next to her. “That bad, huh?” is all she asks.

She probably doesn’t even expect an answer.

“He’s still cute,” she adds. “Scar looks hot, too.”

Emma whines into her pillow, and sighs when Ruby pats her head uselessly. It’s no secret the brunette was “Team Emma and Killian” in high school, and Emma is too old to pretend she doesn’t know exactly why her friend would think so. She had a crush on the guy alright, and there is no point in denying it anymore – at least to herself, if not everyone else. If not to him.

She turns her head so her cheek lies on the pillow instead of her entire face, and stares at Ruby. Ruby stares back, sliding down the bed a little so they’re on the same level.

“He thinks he’s not good enough for me,” Emma states.

Ruby purses her lips, before she frowns. “That sounds like the opposite of a problem. I mean, it’s messy, but kinda sweet?”

“What if I think I’m not good enough for anyone?”

“Yeah, _that’s_ bullshit.” Emma bites down on her bottom lip, and Ruby shakes her head. “Come on, you can’t actually think that. You’re awesome, and you’re freaking smart, and you’re way out of everyone’s league, seriously. And you like him, so fuck insecurities.”

“That’s a terrible peep talk,” Emma replies, word half-mumbled through her pillow. But she’s smiling too, the kind of smile only Ruby can get, so it must count for something.

“Also, your ass is perfect.”

Emma’s eyes widen before she laughs out loud at Ruby’s unexpected comment, her friend only rolling her eyes a little. It’s easy to fall back into a conversation after that, Emma just has to tease her about repeating it to Mulan for the both of them to tease each other back and forth for a good hour, up until they hear Ingrid coming home from her job. And then hear Ingrid cooing at Killian.

Really, Emma is only going downstairs to save him from that nightmare. Not other ideas in mind whatsoever, even if Ruby’s Cheschire cat might say otherwise.

 

…

 

“You got me a present.”

That’s not actually a question, and Emma keeps staring at the box in front of her – flight or fight, her brain singsongs to her, what will it be? – because she can’t stare at Killian instead. She just can’t. And she doesn’t need to, because she’s already picturing him scratching the spot on his neck while his pointed ears turn a dark shade of pink, the blush spreading to his cheeks and nose.

“That’s what Christmas is for,” he replies in a soft whisper.

She wants to tell him that, no, Christmas is for Ingrid and her, and cheap movies, and pretending she has a normal life – but the words die at the back of her throat before she even tries to say them. Instead, she stares at the present, the golden paper and the enormous red bow, and she forces herself not to tear up.

Ruby can give her all the peep talks in the world, Emma still doesn’t believe she deserves this. She deserves this selfless, beautiful man who gives her Christmas present even when all she gave him was the cold shoulder for the last past weeks.

“Just open it,” he adds, knee nudging hers.

So she does, carefully pulling on one string of the bow, before she unfolds the wrapping paper. A gasp escapes her when she finds herself nose to nose with the seven Harry Potter books – the new editions, the one with the very pretty covers she has admired so many times on Amazon. She presses her fingers to her mouth, because he remembered. Of course he remembered her complaining about her books, and how she owns the paperback versions for the first four but the hardcopy for the others, and it looks uneven on her shelf, and _that’s just ugly okay, they should all be the same size_.

“Killian, I –” she starts, before she stops and instead says, “It must have cost a fortune.”

“So?”

And, well, it’s that one and unique word that puts some sense into her. Because he says it like he can’t believe why she’d tell him that, like he didn’t think twice before buying her those books, like he doesn’t really care about the price if it makes her happy. Because he wants to make her happy, even when she probably doesn’t deserve it, even when –

She puts the books aside on the couch, turns around, and kisses him.

Killian makes a little noise of surprise at the back of his throat, still against her for a second, before he eases into the kiss, sighs against her mouth. His good hand comes to cup her cheek, tilting her head so he can deepen the kiss, and his other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her to him until she has no other choice but to straddle him.

Her knees cage his hips and she runs both hands through his hair, and she just forgets to think. Only counts him, and his mouth, and his tongue, and all the freaking love he manages to pour into that one kiss – until they break away, her nose brushing against his as she forces herself not to dive back for more.

She’s about to say something – anything – when a cough startles them both, and she looks up to find Ingrid in the doorframe, arms folded on her chest and one eyebrow raised to her hairline. Killian turns his head to look at her, then looks back at Emma with a silent ‘oops’ that has her almost bursting into laughter on the spot.

Instead, she grabs the books and waves them in the air to show Ingrid.

“Harry Potter trivia,” she announces proudly. “Works wonders.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “Just don’t forget to switch off the lights when you go to bed.”


End file.
